Distortions

　　 The train station in Philadelphia is quite beautiful, despite being radioactive from all the stones from which it is composed. Somehow it reminds me of a mausoleum, just peopled by the living rather than the dead.
　　 My memory is so faded, so distorted, by alcohol, by the crush of life. Even where the facts may seem to lack certain accuracy, the feelings often times are exact, if distorted. Distorted by alcohol, then. Distorted by my memory, now.
　　 Losing things because of my drinking and then drinking more to get over the loss. Then drinking to forget drinking over those losses. I wallowed in the pain, then. Am I wallowing in the memory of the pain, now?



from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Chapter 26)